


L'Année Prochaine

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at Roland Garros in 2004 and 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Année Prochaine

**Author's Note:**

> _"Maybe in two or three years, maybe I will be able to hold the men's trophy," Gaël says, when someone asks, because why not. Anything is possible._ Written for [Netcord Volume II](http://netcord.livejournal.com/4355.html).

_2004_

The train shudders sleepily through the French countryside, a formless vista of blurred green and the occasional streak of a house or town outside the window that tucks them into the contained world of their half-empty carriage. It's June, and in two days the junior tournament at Roland Garros starts, but for now Jo's sprawled out with his heels up on the unoccupied seat opposite, and Gaël stretches his long legs over his own racket bag. Jo's shoulder bumps against Gaël's, warm and companionable, and in the limbo feeling of being suspended between one place and another, they play _what ifs._

"If you could win Wimbledon or Roland Garros," Jo says, "which one would you pick?"

"Roland Garros," Gaël says, and because Jo's already asked him about the Australian Open and he can see where this is heading, he says, "And I'd pick Roland Garros over the US Open, too."

"What about all three together, versus?" Jo counters, grinning because he's deliberately being a pain in the ass. Jo only looks sweet. He's sneaky like that. Jo has a cute face and a butter wouldn't melt smile, which hides the fact that he also has a wicked sense of humour and a stable of sharply observed caricature impressions up his sleeve, which is how they became friends in the first place. Sweet's boring, and Jo's anything but. Gaël narrows his eyes at him and Jo just laughs, kicks the side of Gaël's shoe lightly.

"I'd have to think about it," Gaël says, although he wouldn't, really.

("I never asked you," Gaël will say, four years later, "whether you wanted Roland Garros more than anything else."

He'd only assumed, because he couldn't imagine _not_.

"I could have settled for the Australian," Jo will say, dryly.)

But for now they're young and brilliant with the challenges of the pro circuit still tantalisingly far enough away to be full of promise, and for now they can pick and choose, dividing up the trophies the way children share out sweets. Australia for Jo, because Gaël already won it at Juniors and anything more is just greedy, Jo says, and Gaël, feeling still flush enough with the memory of that victory to be generous, concedes the point. Not that he wouldn't give Jo pretty much anything he asked for, anyway.

"But you can have the US Open," says Jo, magnanimous, "because you like Arthur Ashe so much."

"You can have Wimbledon, then," Gaël says.

"You're just saying that because then you can have Roland Garros all to yourself," Jo says. Gaël's not, but he shrugs.

"Richie can have Wimbledon," he says. "Richie likes Wimbledon best. And we can share Roland Garros. I'll win it first, obviously - " and he breaks off and leans quickly away in a futile attempt to duck out of Jo's reach, laughing. Jo's hand bumps off his shoulder in a mock-punch and then settles on the back of his neck in a way that's probably meant to be threatening, but Gaël stills under it. It's not exactly a touch he wants to evade. "And then you after, obviously. We'll alternate."

"What about Gilles?" Jo asks, somewhat placated. He gives Gaël's neck a squeeze and then lets go. "What about Josselin?"

Gaël shrugs again as if to say, well, what can you do? There is only so much Roland Garros to go around, and after a second Gaël and Jo grin at each other, wicked and brilliant, hoarding future glories between them. Gaël knocks his shoulder against Jo's and Jo rocks back into it: pact sealed.

-

When Gaël takes the cool silver plate in his hands and lifts it up over his head a week later it feels like the start of something rather than a culmination - this victory a placeholder for things to come. Me first, he thinks, then Jo. In that moment there's nothing that he doesn't love. He loves the frenetic pulse of the Bullring and the passion of the crowd, _allez, allez, allez_ sparking as kinetic energy that drives everything he does even though the stadium court is only half-full for a boys' final. He wants to hear a full crowd here, or on Suzanne Lenglen, or Philippe Chatrier on the final day, all those thousands of people chanting _allez, Monfils!_ He cradles the silver plate and imagines the heavier weight of the Coupe des Mousquetaires in his arms.

"Maybe in two or three years, maybe I will be able to hold the men's trophy," Gaël says, when someone asks, because why not. Anything is possible.

-

 _2008_

"'Maybe in two or three years,'" Jo says, reciting from memory. It's the night before Gaël's semi-final against Federer, and they're talking on the phone. Jo is at home, resting his knee, and Gaël is in his hotel room, sprawled on the sofa not-really watching a muted basketball game between two teams he doesn't care about.

"Maybe in two or three years," Jo says again, and Gaël makes a complaining sound that Jo ignores completely, because Jo is still not anywhere near as sweet as he looks and he never gets tired of pushing Gaël's buttons. "Wait, wait, I haven't finished - 'Maybe in two or three years I will be able to hold the men's trophy.'"

"You're the only person in the world who still remembers that," says Gaël, grumbling. He transfers the phone from one hand to the other, tucking it close to his ear.

"That's not true," says Jo, very close by and still very far, too far away. "You remember it."

Gaël huffs. On the tv a ball travels a graceful arc through the air, and misses the basket by an inch.

"You know I didn't mean -" Jo says, after a beat.

"I wish you were here," Gaël admits, cutting him off. A frisson of anticipation flickers in his stomach like butterflies, and he thinks if Jo were here he'd feel better, more grounded. He wants to share out victory with Jo the way they planned it, before there were such things as injuries or expectations that they couldn't fulfil. He wants Jo here because victories are better when you can share them with people you love, and defeats easier to bear.

"I wish I was there, too," says Jo, with a little dry laugh, meaning two things at once. "But I'll be watching."

Gaël’s not sure whether that makes it better or worse.

"Anyway," says Jo. "You have to win, because I can’t win until you do. We decided."

Gaël laughs. He tips his head against the back of the sofa. "That’s true," he says. "We decided."

"And I’m bored of waiting," Jo continues, playful and serious at the same time. "So get yourself together, Monfils."

"For you, I'll try my best," says Gaël, and he will.


End file.
